Contrail
by TurningArt
Summary: I created a myth that Rachel Berry was not capable of loving me back. I held on to that belief for the longest time that I didn't know how to dismantle it anymore. One shot, Quinn's pov, faberry endgame (of course).


I tried to be less abrasive, but the heavy door creaked its announcement of my arrival anyway. My eyes immediately travelled to the red bricks that lorded over the interior. I vaguely heard the broker briskly walk to welcome me. Sighing, I waited for the usual niceties to end; I simply wanted to find an apartment I can settle in immediately.

"Floor is hardwood with a glossy finish, high ceiling…the exposed wooden beams are a nice touch."

I nodded after every description, punctuating my interest.

"The neighborhood is the new Chelsea," the man grinned. "What exactly do you do, if you don't mind me asking?"

"A lot of things," I said coyly. "My office is mobile."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I work on wherever I want to work. Me, a notebook and pen, a laptop and an internet connection. Anywhere."

I was rewarded with an expected suspicious nod and a faint "huh."

I suppressed a laugh. The generational gap couldn't have been more apparent between me and my broker. I stopped myself from indulging a streak of cruel humor—how I wished I could imply I was into some form of illegal activities or covert operations, and instead sat down and drank the coffee he generously provided. Flashing him my most disarming smile, I patiently explained that I'm part of a young and aggressive cross platform technology solutions company with a virtual office. I deal with clients—I make the pitch, I make the sales. Begrudgingly, I have long accepted that there really was a little Sue Sylvester in me and that's been shown apparent with my success rate. I have always gotten the job done with a sniper-like discipline and precision.

I also offered my services—with gratuity—to certain organizations with advocacies I support through mostly website content. That needn't be said to people I merely transact with.

I had a distinct feeling he still didn't quite understand what it is that I do for a living. I offered him a sympathetic smile because my mother called my work, "your internet gig." Not even a legitimate career, it seems. Just a gig. All said with affection and pride, of course.

"The rent per month is three thousand five hundred, with downpay—"

"I'll take it. When can I move in?"

I was in a hurry. I was already getting tired of living for a couple of weeks in an AirbnB, with four unpacked suitcases; running away from the contrails of another failed relationship.

So there I was, taking another transatlantic leap, this time to Lower East Side Manhattan— to one of its tenement-inspired apartments. It was fitting. The reinvention of this community mirrored mine in so many ways: its colorful history, rise to gentrification, and struggle to recover authenticity.

Not to mention the awesome Delis.

At 24, I potentially had the world at my feet; with Lima, Ohio a mere dot—distant and hazy— in a universe I can conquer.

But out of a myriad of options, I chose New York.

To be closer to her. To keep her at arm's length. To love without the illusion of being loved back.

Far from being it being absolutely pathetic, I viewed my relationship—friendship—with Rachel Berry as more of a parallax. That is why distance mattered; in a comfortable point where I viewed her—and my feelings—from a comfortable proximity. Too far away, I lose my north. Too close and my lungs constricted.

How many times have I given up my own pride for Rachel? I've lost count. I never tallied in the first place. I've stopped questioning my behavior a long time ago, and accepted the fact that I am forever, hopelessly in love with her.

Sure, it would be nice if I suddenly find her at my door one morning declaring her undying love for me, kiss me senseless, and knock me off my feet. And admittedly, there _was_ a point in my life where I thought she would introspectively figure things out and choose me without actually offering myself as an option. But for lack of better description, Rachel Berry's sixth sense absolutely sucked.

My love eventually evolved into the kind that didn't leave me _wanting_. I knew where I stood, and it was enough. In between my fleeting relationships, career, and constant uprooting, the last thing I wanted was to vacillate between the tragic heroine, the necessary tritagonist, and the reviled adversary. I've had so many uncertainties, that I owed it to myself to find that one stable element in my life. To Rachel, I had simply become Quinn, her best friend. Perpetually suspended and tethered—orbiting—around her.

I didn't mind.

Because _she_ didn't mind.

She, in fact, _demanded_.

She called me her best girl friend because Kurt is her best guy friend. It's really juvenile, that I could be spiteful of the fact that I couldn't even be Rachel's only number one for something—anything.

Self-flagellation came second nature to me after my bouts of resentfulness. It usually materialized in the form of isolation and a few rounds of whiskey and soda. I return to status quo afterwards. I always did.

The newly established range however allowed Rachel a wide berth to scrutinize me. She constantly chastised me that I developed a taste for the bourbon cocktail, leaving certain things hanging—things best left unspoken.

Like Beth.

Like my family's Achilles Heel.

"One glass a day, Rachel, is a healthy dose of relaxation," I assured her.

"What's making you so stressed?" Rachel countered with narrowed eyes. "Besides work," she amended.

I knew exactly where the conversation was heading. It's always about my checkered romantic record that's bothered her, though it usually ended in an optimistic note—of Rachel assuring me that I will eventually find that one person who will "tame the elusive Quinn Fabray".

Those conversations normally happened in the comfort of virtual network or short visits with a hundred and one activities to distract us. Things are now different. Under the ambient lighting of my living room, I was constantly dissected by her.

Unlike me, she wasn't shy to admit that I was a source of curiosity and wonder, and that she was willing to go through lengths just to peel off the layers and layers of sheath that hid the real me.

My perpetual response—and to her annoyance—was to ask existential questions.

Who's the real Quinn Fabray?

Are we not our authentic selves with what we decide to show others?

Are we not multidimensional as human beings?

She called me the ghost of Socrates. I've gone a long way from being a Cosmo Girl.

I felt warm all over because she learned of him through me.

"You just really don't want to give a straight answer," she huffed.

"But I'm not even teasing you, Rach. It's a genuine answer. We have roles to play, as a daughter, worker, friend," I explained in an effort to mollify her. "Performativity and identity."

She rolled her eyes at my smug face that screamed "I am a Yale graduate, witness how I make myself sound intelligent."

My cockiness seemed to become more exceptional through the years.

"Don't sidetrack me," she warned with a pitiful imitation of my glare.

"What happened, Quinn?"

She fought dirty. She uttered my name with such gentleness and reverence akin to whispering God's name in moments of weakness.

"He was kind and loving, you told me. What went wrong?"

"Are those ever enough to make someone stay?"

"No…no…" She nodded in agreement. "But…you don't also seem to _want_ to stay. What's missing?"

I felt small under her gaze. I was a puzzle—a Rubik's cube perhaps—that was begging to be solved. And she, like a child, just didn't give up.

I was deathly afraid of that. Of her finally figuring things out. What do you do when you've finally put the pieces together? When all sides have fitted their colors? I was not too sure if I wanted to know the answer.

"I don't know," I mumbled. I slightly shiver as I uttered the biggest lie I've ever said. Deception came second nature to me—from the reinvention of Lucy, to my pregnancy—and I knew the fall out was always worse than my calculated outcomes. "I just…I felt I needed a new environment."

"That didn't include him?"

"I couldn't see him in my future." That's what I told him, too. It's harsh, it cuts; it's the kind of reason that breaks people if their character is weak. I didn't bother to know if he was going to be fine.

"I'm fine, Rachel," I smiled, attempting to give her assurance.

"You're always _fine_, Quinn," she sighed. "I want you to be more than okay."

"I can say the same—in fact, I _am_ going to say the same."

Straightening her posture, I smirked a bit knowing by now that she's about to defend herself. Unfortunately, that usually required deconstructing _me_ in the process.

"Unlike you." There you go. "I'm not afraid to admit that something _is_ missing. I have yet to identify what exactly it is that's left me feeling that my relationships are inadequate, but I don't delude myself into feeling unperturbed about it."

"I don't believe in eating, praying, and loving my way to a fulfilling life. I'm not going to spend x hours a day contemplating on it. I'm—we're—twenty four years old, Rach."

"Twenty four becomes forty in a blink of an eye, Quinn. What will happen when we reach that?"

"Prepare for menopause?"

"Are you really that agreeable to living alone all your life? That's really quite a jump from marrying your high school sweetheart and be the milf real estate queen."

That milf part was so unnecessary. Mostly because spelling it out meant I would have been the mother _she _would like to, you know. Judging from how uncomfortable she looked, I knew that she had also thought the same and felt guilty about it.

Abandon all carnal thoughts, Fabray.

"Not _quite_ the jump. It's been almost a decade since I declared my oh-so-brilliant life plan," I reminded her. "So many things have happened. _You_ happened."

"W-what do you mean?"

"You made me realize I'm much more than _that_." I gave her a knowing, apologetic look. Those words could never be separated from the memory of hurting her physically. "I found the confidence to step out of Lima—take my chances—and…I'm here."

"So…I'm the one to blame," she said with much levity, I couldn't help but hug her with one arm—a lot friendlier that way.

"I'm recognizing how much I owe you. Blunders are all mine."

"Nice caveat."

"Only the truth, Rachel Berry."

"I just want you to be happy," she mumbled close to my neck. I could feel her eyes shutting tightly as I felt lithe arms wrap around my waist.

"I _am_." That very moment, I really was.

Admittedly, only two things genuinely made me happy. Having Rachel around in any way possible, and receiving letters and photos of Beth—from Beth.

She looked more and more of me every day. I've always felt a mixture of delight and dread with that knowledge. It's adorable that I had a mini me, it's disconcerting to think she could end up like me. My never-ending prayer is for nurture to be more dominant than nature. Puck and I—we went well together, as individuals. To imagine our character traits rolled into one unit is a horrible thing to envisage.

Speaking of Puck, Rachel and I never really spoke much about why our relationship didn't survive. I couldn't. Besides Santana—and by association, Brittany—Puck was the only person who saw right through me. To be blunt, he heard me mumble in my dreams Rachel's name. Thankfully, not in an erotic way.

I think I've long emasculated my love for her that I don't remember anymore the last time she's entered my subconscious in a rousing manner.

So, I didn't really end things with him. He let go because he finally understood the reason behind my charades. It was the saddest goodbye I've ever given. I genuinely wanted it to work because unlike with the others, I really did care for him.

Rachel most likely believed that I'm spiraling out of control in the romance department because of that breakup. Hard to blame her because the timing was impeccable. Right after our separation, I took comfort in one night stands with women. Rachel—in her most accusatory tone so far—berated me. Calling my chosen poison as "going all Thirteen."

_"What? What's Thirteen?"_

_"Thirteen. Olivia Wilde in House. She—that's her name in the show."_

_"Her name was Thirteen?"_

_"It's…there's a reason behind it. Just, that's not the point."_

_"You haven't even given me any point." _

_"The point is, you, Quinn Fabray, you're channeling all your hurt into one night stands. You choose women because—well, according to House—the chances of assault and sexually transmitted diseases are way lower for lesbian hook ups."_

_"So I'm being practical… though you're actually quoting a TV character as authority."_

_"That's NOT something to be proud of! You're maybe being smart in terms of physical safety but—"_

_"Did it ever occur to you that I simply also enjoy it?"_

There were a lot of moments in my life that I wished for Rachel to be speechless—like maybe saying I do to Finn. That conversation wasn't one of them. The one time I wanted her to ease my transition to authenticity, she chose to remain silent.

It was the closest I got to coming out to her. To finally destroy the myth that the whole Santana moment was a case of drunkenness and experimentation. Santana called out my bullshit; not immediately because I would've kicked her out from my hotel room, and she wanted a second round.

Rachel and I also avoided _that_ topic.

She described me—and far from being mean-spirited— as bisexual by convenience. That still stung though. It implied up until that point, I _still_ just used people for my own gratification, and nothing else but.

Because we didn't talk about the details, there was no way Rachel would've known I wasn't the type to fuck them and leave them.

I cuddled.

My dirtiest secret.

Quinn Fabray, Ice Queen, liked to cuddle after sex.

In a twisted way, Rachel was right that I _did_ deliberately sought out women only. You don't get to snuggle up with a man you have a one night stand with. You just didn't.

Not that it's also expected with my female encounters. Just that it was less weird, I suppose. They understood.

And yes, it did alleviate the pain to bearable dullness; enough for me to face Rachel every day.

Or every couple of days— the new normal after my move to New York.

We never talked about it, nor did we had matching calendars. She was just simply always around, seeking me even if it meant just half an hour of coffee. Though Rachel's social circles had multiplied dramatically since high school, she managed to stay grounded with those of us from McKinley. I felt grateful that her rising star didn't mean leaving us—me—behind.

She took it upon herself to broaden my own base, though I've always felt her tentativeness introducing me to friends and acquaintances that were known to be lesbian or bisexual. I've tried telling her that I wasn't that much of a jerk to put her in awkward situations, but that didn't stop her Rottweiler-like guarding.

"It's not because they're my friends, Quinn. I just really don't approve of that behavior because I don't want you hurting yourself—and before you protest—nothing, and I mean nothing will make me convinced that it's good for you. Not on my watch."

I saw the concern, and I heard the hurt in her voice. I've been there so many times, but that was the first time I've seen it so raw.

So I've avoided it, and dating as well.

Mastery of self-denial.

Though at that point, I couldn't understand anymore _why_ she would be hurting at the thought of me dating.

"You _just_ got out of a relationship," she explained. "Don't dive in immediately. Just enjoy your first few months here, single—not ready to mingle, mind you."

"I apparently can't because mama Rachel said so," I mock sighed.

"Let's just…redo this apartment. It has so much potential!"

"I like it just how it is."

"There's nothing here that's really yours."

"I'm rather fortunate this place was fully furnished. I'm not complaining."

"Does this mean you're only thinking of this as a _temporary_ set-up? You're going to leave again at some point?"

"I don't know, Rachel."

"Why do you do that, Quinn? Don't run away anymore."

"I'm not—I just don't know if I will really like it here, Rach."

"So you really only moved because I suggested it."

"No, of course not—It's not—I do like the idea of being near you. A lot."

"And so when you're already suffocated with my presence, you'd—"

"Stop. Stop right there, Rachel. That wasn't even implied. I just don't ever want you to expect too much from me only to be met by disappointment."

"You don't—"

"I do, all the time, don't I? My hookups, my breakups, my detached emotions."

"Quinn, no, of course not—I'm _concerned_ not disappointed."

"_You_ wouldn't be concerned if my actions didn't disappoint you."

"You're twisting my words and intentions!"

"You think I'm a hussy!"

"Never! Why would I even think of you that way?!"

"Why are we screaming at each other?!"

We laughed after some stare off. She shook her head, wondering why that escalated.

"For the record, I could totally see you as Thirteen. And that's not an insult, obviously."

"That's—don't say that, Rachel."

"Why not?"

"Just," I sighed before kissing her forehead—asking for pardon—"don't think of me that way."

"So," she cleared her throat, "how about my suggestion? You know, redecoration?"

"Aren't you too busy being a Broadway star?"

"I'm on break, Quinn. I have two months of well-deserved rest."

"I have no excuse, then."

She smiled so brightly it was blinding. "Don't you try and run away from me, okay?"

"What will happen if I do?"

"I'll run after you."

And just like that, when I thought it was impossible, I had fallen more in love with her.

I cursed inwardly for allowing that to happen, and for indulging in temporary madness and delusion. Pretending that _we_ recently moved in the apartment together. She was a bee buzzing around my home, opening boxes of frames, lamps, vases. She was in the living room one minute, and in the kitchen next, paint brush on hand, or wallpapering corners for accents.

I felt it—the suffocation she dreaded.

But far from it being exhausted with her larger-than-life personality, it was because reality was hitting me hard. I've let my guard down and I was already in too deep; too late for me to retreat this time.

The universe just couldn't give me a damn break.

I can't even exaggerate even if I tried.

Two weeks into overhauling my place, I was livid—rummaging through chaos, trying to find my phone.

"It's just there, Quinn," she giggled, "somewhere."

"Yeah, well, _somewhere_ isn't helpful. I need my stupid phone."

"Waiting for a text message from someone important?"

"Yes, our client. Thank you for fishing information and not looking."

She sighed then picked up her phone. "Okay, grumpy cat. I'll give it a ring."

"Uh—no—you don't—"

I've been humiliated several times in my life. I knew what it felt like, and more importantly, I knew how to deal with it. But nothing had prepared me for that moment when Rachel rang and Imogen Heap started playing. Softly at first, and for every excruciating second I failed at retrieving my phone, the lyrics became louder and clearer.

_"Why d'ya have to be so cute?  
It's impossible to ignore you  
Must you make me laugh so much  
It's bad enough we get along so well  
Say goodnight and go"_

Her expression alternated from confused to flattered, then morphed into amusement with a hint of embarrassment.

I suddenly felt trapped in a null gravity room. Everything slowed down, and the only things I could hear were the loud thumping of my fragile, fragile heart and my erratic breathing.

I passed out. I think I did. But I was still standing when I regained consciousness to the sound of fingers snapping.

"Quinn."

"I—uhhmmm"

"Do you need water?"

"No, I—uhmmmm"

"How about you sit down?"

"It's—uhmmmm"

"I think you need water _and_ to sit down. You've been reduced to caveman-like grunts, and I need your ability to converse in coherent sentences back."

Most of the time she did, but Rachel also appreciated the incomprehensible mumblings I produced at some point. Moaning in _our_ bed as an effect of her touch, mostly. But it took some time to reach that destination. Of course it did.

Because being Quinn Fabray meant I responded to critical moments of my life in the most inane way possible.

I ran.

She ran after me.

I kept running.

I was under the bleachers once more, and she was bravely convincing me to come back.

I created a myth that she was not capable of loving me back. I held on to that belief for the longest time that I didn't know how to dismantle it anymore.

Until she gave me an ultimatum in typical Rachel Berry flare—to "meet me and talk like adults or I will call Perez Hilton for an exclusive article about my juicy, pun intended, personal life. You, at the center stage of course."

Really adult-like.

"You'd really sell me out to that gossip king?"

"I would," she said with so much determination, it would have made Sue Sylvester kowtow to her.

We both stared at the squirrel that defiantly stared back at us. I munched loudly the pretzel sticks I bought before heading to Central Park, trying to antagonize the furball for shamelessly eavesdropping. And at the corner of my eyes, I saw Rachel's dimple slowly making its presence known.

I missed that.

I missed _her._

"Are you…making the squirrel envious of your food, Quinn?"

"…Maybe."

"They eat nuts, not—"

"I know _that_. I—what do we need to talk about?"

"Really? You're going to play that game with me?"

"What game?"

"Do I _really_ have to spell it out?"

"Like I said—"

"You _like_ me."

"Of course I like you. You're my—"

"You're really making this _so_ difficult. You like _me_—attracted to _me_—beyond friendship. You like _me _in the sense that you're sexually attracted to me—there, see? You're all _red_ right now because you insist on letting me be the one to flesh this out. And you know how blunt I can be."

"Don't do this, Rachel. Please."

"You sound so tired, Quinn."

"That's because I _am_. God, Rachel. You have no idea—"

"Then make _me_ understand."

"What for? What good will that too? I _was_ fine until that stupid, _goddamn _phone happened."

"I told you I don't like it that you're _just_ fine."

"Yeah, well, what can you do, Rachel, huh?"

"No Quinn, it's what _you_ can do."

"You're not making—"

"How about you put a little _faith_ in yourself and in _me_, huh? How about that? Can _you_ do that?"

"Rachel…you and I…no, it's not like that, is it?"

For years, I've prepared myself that in the event this would happen, I would hear a "no, it's not. I'm sorry, Quinn."

I didn't prepare myself for a slap on the face—in public no less.

"Rachel…"

"Does that hurt? Good. _That_ doesn't even compare to the pain you've caused me over the years. Watching you—no, imagining you—with different people when all I've ever _wished_ is for me to be _that_ person. Disposable as they may have been, they _had_ you even for just one moment. Don't even make me start talking about how I feel whenever you introduce a new man in your life."

She was crying and trembling at that point. I was rooted firmly, dumbfounded by a revelation that left me feeling hollow.

"I don't even know when it started, Quinn. But when it did, it took all my resolve not to run away from you. You think you're the only one who's not worked on self-preservation? I know you, I know you so well. You could break me easily because, god, Quinn, you have _no_ idea about the effect you have on people."

"Ra—"

"I'm not done! You don't get to talk now, you've forfeited your right for being such a jerk to me."

I _was_. I stopped talking, since I've been stripped off my first amendment. She, however, didn't say I couldn't respond in a different manner.

So I did. Kiss her, I mean.

That immediate feeling of her lips on mine brought electricity that jolted my whole being. I came to life for the first time; and as it went deeper, I fell into oblivion that was frightening and exhilarating at the same time.

I looked into her eyes and saw myself. For the first time, I liked what I saw.

I saw Lucy and Quinn; the Cheerio and the skank; the teenage mom and the Yale graduate.

I saw that she loved _me_.

"I love you, Rachel. I love you, I love _you_. I've—"

"Shhh. We have time. We have _all_ the time to figure this out. Just…I need to know one thing."

"Go, ask."

"You really think I'm cute and impossible to ignore?"

She _was_ difficult to ignore. My broker found out after some time; throwing furtive glances my way, begging to be freed from Rachel's litany of demands for our ideal home.

I gave him once more a sympathetic smile, and a shrug. "We're getting married soon. We _do_ need a new home."

A/N: I feel sad that Glee will be over. And I do hope we still continue keeping Quinn and Rachel alive through stories.

Update for How Much for an Hour will be back this April. For now, this is my tribute to Glee.


End file.
